Along the upper stretch of the Indus River, hidden between steep rocky hills, lie the small villages of Ladakh, once promoted as ‘The Last Aryan Settlements’.
For generations, the Brokpa people of Dah, Hanu, Garkon, and Darchik lived in this Himalayan region of northern India, growing barley, tending orchards, and passing down traditions shaped by the harsh but beautiful land that stretches into the Tibetan plateau.
Then, in the late 1990s, a strange rumour started to appear in travel magazines and foreign media.
It claimed that European women were visiting these villages not just to see the mountains, but to have babies with local men, believed to carry ‘pure Aryan blood’.
The story spread quickly. It attracted tourists and the attention of filmmakers, and stayed online long after the truth faded.
Yet inside the narrow alleys of Darchik, where apricot trees bend under their own weight, villagers remember the rumour as something that caused confusion, discomfort, and a feeling of being misunderstood.
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Sonam Dorjey, 76, recalls those years clearly. ‘When I was young, only a few foreign women came here. They took photos, asked about our clothes and songs, and spoke about Aryans and bloodlines. We did not know what they meant because such ideas were never part of our lives.
‘Then journalists wrote stories saying women came to get pregnant here. That was nonsense. Maybe one or two love stories happened, but nothing more. The outside world wanted magic instead of our real, simple life.’
An imported myth
The villages still look the same today, with stone houses, wooden roofs, narrow walking paths, and long rows of apricot trees.
The residents proudly call themselves Brokpa, meaning people of the high hills. They speak Brokskat, a language few outside the region can understand. Their traditional clothes, long woollen robes adorned with flowers, silver, and turquoise, often draw curious looks from visitors.
Unlike the majority of the Ladakhis with Tibeto-Mongol looks, the Brokpas have Indo-Aryan features.
Their distinctive features, hazel eyes, sharp noses, and fair skin, once fed the lore that they were the descendants of ancient Aryans.
Rigzin Tundup, 82, remembers how the label reached their valley.
‘We never used the word Aryan for ourselves. Tourists brought that word here. They looked at our faces like we were museum pieces. They told us we were special because of how we looked. But our elders always said we came from areas like Baltistan long ago. Our identity is our language, prayers, and festivals. Outsiders saw only colour and shape. Their story trapped us in an identity that was never ours.’
The roots of the rumour did not start in Ladakh.
They came from Europe, where 19th-century scholars invented the false idea of an Aryan race. Later, Nazi racial theorists misused it. When European researchers found a mountain community with lighter features, they assumed they had discovered the last surviving Aryans.
By the late 1990s, tourism companies started referring to Dah and Hanu ‘The Aryan Valley’. Then the rumour took a strange turn, suggesting that foreign women were visiting the villages looking for Aryan babies.
Phunchok Lobzang, 39, has read those articles online. ‘I have seen stories saying European women came here to have babies with Brokpa men. It is unbelievable.
‘Yes, long ago, some foreigners married men from here, but they came because of love, not race. Tourists still ask me if the rumour is true. I tell them clearly that it was created by outsiders, not by us. It was never part of our culture.’
Fact checks by India Today, Navbharat Times, and The CSR Journal later confirmed the truth. There was no sign of pregnancy tourism. Yes, a few cross-cultural marriages had taken place, but they were the product of genuine relationships.
‘An uncomfortable rumour’
Dr. Padma Norzom, an anthropologist from Leh, says the myth grew because people were hungry for a dramatic idea.
‘The idea of pure Aryans is a colonial fantasy,’ she tells Metro. ‘When Western travellers saw a light-skinned community in Ladakh, they imagined they had found proof of their old myths. But genetics does not support any idea of ‘purity’.
‘Tourism companies used this fantasy to attract attention, and filmmakers added drama. It turned the Brokpa into symbols instead of real people. This was racial romanticism, where outsiders project their wishes onto a community that never claimed such identity.’
The myth grew stronger after a foreign documentary in 2007 hinted that a European woman had chosen a Brokpa man to father her child. Blogs and tabloids spread the claim, presenting the villages as places where women came to conceive.
For the villagers, the attention was uncomfortable and sometimes hurtful.
Tsering Dolkar, 44, still remembers how intrusive the visitors became.
‘Tourists walked through our village taking photos without asking. They stared at our faces and whispered. Some women were asked if they would give birth to Aryan babies. It was painful.
‘Our culture became a show for outsiders. Some young men were convinced to pose in clothing that was not even real Brokpa dress. We felt like our identity was being taken away and changed into something we never wanted.’
Lore and livelihood
Yet even though many residents disagree with or question these myths, the idea of the Aryan Valley has still played a major role in shaping the area’s identity in the outside world.
Over time, this fascination has significantly boosted tourism. Travellers come wanting to explore the culture, traditions, and lifestyle of the people living there.
This steady flow of visitors has not only brought attention to the community but has also created important economic opportunities. Many families now depend on tourism for their livelihoods, through homestays, local handicrafts, cultural experiences, and guiding services.
And so, while the myths do not define the people, they have undeniably become a key driver of the community’s economy.
As better roads, schools, and the internet reached the valley, younger villagers began rejecting the myth and explaining their real history with more confidence.
Yangdol Diskit, 27, a schoolteacher, sees this change every day.
‘When I was young, tourists asked more about Aryans than about our festivals or traditions. Now I teach my students to be proud of being Brokpa.
‘Our identity is our language, our songs, and our connection to the mountains. We are not characters from a foreign story. We are people with our own truth, and we want the next generation to understand that clearly.’
The real problems facing the Brokpa villages have nothing to do with myths.
Glaciers are shrinking faster. Rainfall is no longer predictable. Water is becoming scarce. Many young people leave for cities to study or work, while elders worry about the loss of their language and customs.
Tashi Angdus, 67, believes the world ignored the issues that mattered.
‘While outsiders were talking about Aryan babies, we were worried about water. The glaciers melt faster now, and our streams dry sooner. These problems affect our crops and our future. But no one asked about this.
‘People preferred a fantasy they could repeat instead of the real challenges we live with every day. We were not angry, just tired of being misunderstood.’
To reclaim their identity, the Brokpa community now holds cultural festivals where they perform folk songs, dances, farming rituals, and traditional ceremonies. Visitors are welcome, but the message is clear. This is real Brokpa culture, not the myth.
Stanzin Jigmet, 34, helps organise these programmes. ‘These festivals are for our children and our community first. Visitors can join and learn, but we tell them the truth about our traditions. If someone asks about Aryans, we gently explain that it is just a myth created far away.
‘We want people to understand who we really are, not who someone imagined us to be. This is our story, and we are telling it ourselves now.’
The rumour still appears in some old brochures and online videos, but it is losing its power. In the villages, people now laugh about the idea that once caused so much confusion.
As the sun sets over Darchik and the Indus glows in the evening light, old Sonam Dorjey warms his hands outside his home.
‘I have seen many journalists over the years. Some wrote lies, some wrote truth. Maybe long ago, a few foreign women loved men here. Love is natural. But to say our valley was a place for making Aryan babies was foolish.
‘People enjoy beautiful lies. But our truth is simple. We live with our fields, our families, and our mountains. Myths fade, but the people stay the same.’
And beneath the high Himalayan sky, the Brokpa continue their life quietly and firmly, finally free from the weight of a story that was never theirs in the first place.
